Declaration of Intent
by fight-thedead-fear-theliving
Summary: A truth about survivors: They can no longer define themselves by the things they were forced to throw away.


Rick holsters his pistol, fingers trailing the length of the handle. _Just in case_, he reminds himself as he looks down from his porch, automatically sizing up every person that passes by. He wages he wouldn't even need the pistol if it came down to it. _They're soft_, just as Carl said they were and soft doesn't cut it in this new world order.

Pulling up a stool, Rick settles himself in a corner of the deck like he thinks he used to do on lazy summer evenings. Floorboards creak as he shifts his weight, tipping the wooden feet as he angles himself against the wall. It's tempting, Rick gives Alexandria that. Temping to lose himself in the comforts of four walls and a door, but Rick isn't a fool. There's no more security here than there was behind concrete walls. All it takes is one mistake, one miscalculation for everything to crumble around them like dust.

"Goodnight Rick," someone – Clara? – calls on her way home. Her partner is at her heels, pace slow, body loose like there aren't walkers prowling the edge of the fence. With smiles that reach their eyes and not a thought about the unmanned watchtower that paints a target over them in bold red letters. Deanna asked him to protect Alexandria and Rick will do that, even if it means taking it.

Rick tips his head as the women hurry past, watching them as they duck behind a corner_. Protect people_, Deanna said. _Keep the peace_. He still doesn't know what he feels when he weaves his arms into navy blue sleeves, but he certainly doesn't feel like the same man who accepted a sheriff's deputy badge with a wide smile. No longer has the family that was sitting in the crowd, pictures burned with the rest of their photos in a camp near a quarry. He feels so far removed from the man who stood in the middle of a grocery store and debated cereal choices that he can't remember debating: honey or cinnamon.

He can remember shooting a man he didn't know to save his own.

_We have a chance here_, Michonne urged him what feels like milliseconds and a lifetime ago. Shoulder bare of her katana, golden necklace sitting delicately on her collar bone; a stark contrast from the woman who could cut the head of a walker off in one swipe, who will take out an eye to get her revenge. _Carl, Judith, they have a chance here, Rick. But we have to let go. We need to make this work. We don't have to be who we were out there, not anymore_.

A small and inconsequential part of Rick wants to –does – believe her- _we can come back from what we've done. We're not too far gone_. But every time he thinks about giving in, accepting the tumbler of whiskey or leaving his pistol at home, he can smell hot iron and burning flesh. Can hear metal bending and the screams of his people. He remembers the devastation that happens when you trade a gun for a shovel, when you try to come back. Stepping away from the person that kept you alive out there, in the wild, it means people die. Everything you've built crumples and Rick's not playing to lose this time

A truth about survivors: They can no longer define themselves by the things they were forced to throw away.

Holding on is a fool's game, whether that's to who you used to be, or to comforts like broken cellphones and book clubs. It prevents you from facing the reality of the situation and there's no getting out of this one. Rick used to close his eyes and see a red deck with the blue grill that always smelled like onions. Carl (didn't know how to hold a gun) always begged to flip the burgers, Lori shaking her head no because he'd get burned. Rick used to close his eyes and dream about a place like this when he work up to see the dead living. Now when Rick closes his eyes, well, he can still feel the warmth of the blood spreading over his hand. (_Now what'd you do that for, man_? A different Shane would have asked with the right amount of betrayal in his voice. But that Shane died before Rick woke up in an abandoned hospital.)

Surviving means letting your old life slip through your fingers like dirty lake water. It means watching your back every second and sleeping with an eye open. It's the curve of a knife and the bite of a bullet. It's understanding that walkers aren't the only threat anymore, but at least they're predictable. A smile can easily end with a knife through your gut and Rick's not throwing his family into the mix until he's ripped off the wool and is sure he doesn't see a single pair of fangs. Until then, well, he won't hesitant to pull at the trigger.

Rick rests his forearm on his knee, thumb tucked just under his chin. Absentmindedly, his fingers explore his cheek, smooth skin as foreign to him as sleeping in a proper bed. He wasn't exactly lying when he told Jessie he thought he would never find the time to shave again. The entire truth is that he didn't see a reason to waste the energy when they were still in the thick of things. Its energy better spent looking for water and shelter. Energy he needed to keep his group together and alive.

And if they're not all still alive, at least the remaining few are together. It's still not easy being separated by walls and assigned positions, but it's becoming bearable. They're capable, each and everyone one of them and if something goes down, they'll be right on top with him. The thought is comforting, but not comforting enough to keep his fingers from twitching every time a door slams. Separation makes them vulnerable, more open to attack. Divide and conquer is an age old battle strategy that brought armies to the ground and Rick's not going to go down without a fight. The pressure of the pistol tucked into the back of his pants is reassuring, but not reassuring enough when he can't quite keep track of his own.

Doing tallies becomes just as routine as walking down the streets of Alexandria, checking in on residents and settling disputes: Carol is in the pantry, Abraham working on the wall, Carl at Jesse's house or in school. Every minute of every day is broken down by duties and timeframes to make sure everyone is accounted for, everyone is safe. He wants to know how long it takes Sasha and Daryl to return from beyond the wall, needs the breakdown of everything Maggie overhears Deanna talking about. Let them be divided, Rick thinks, he'll still find a way to use it to his advantage.

A sharp click to the left has Rick whipping his head to the side, foot slamming onto the deck for proper traction. Body working on automatic, it's ready to jump, duck, pull out his gun and shoot at the first sign of trouble. It's not until he hears Aaron's voice, soft and jovial – the type of voice you expect from someone who leaves water in the middle of the road for strangers - that he feels his body ease, if not entirely. Rick still can't wrap his head around the man and the uncertainty puts him on the defensive. Rick wants everything catalogued, stored and labeled so he doesn't have to give it a second thought. When you're facing down a threat, there's no room for second doubts.

It's only when Aaron's voice is joined by the familiar, low drawl of their hunter that Rick's hand relaxes, moves away from his belt and comes to rest at his side again. Daryl doesn't exactly look cultured, but he's wearing a long sleeved shirt which is a development Rick's been unable to track, just like his budding friendship with their benefactor. He angles his head to try to listen to their conversation but can hear nothing but the soft murmurs. Eventually, Arron lifts his hand towards Daryl, but it stops its trajectory midway. _You ain't there, yet_, Rick thinks and he selfishly wants to keep it that way.

They don't make eye contact as Daryl departs Aaron's house but Rick knows the hunter feels his gaze like prey. Pulling a cigarette out from his pocket, Daryl doesn't rush to close the distance between the two houses, no trace of being uncomfortable under Rick's gaze. The cigarette is dangling from the hunter's lips when he moves to join him, silently settling himself next to Rick, left leg coming to rest like a triangle against the wall. When he's comfortable, he strikes a match, watching as the flame flickers and dies after lighting his smoke. Rick breathes in the smell until his core fills with it then audibly exhales, body slouching enough for his arm to bump against Daryl's and rests there.

"Been spending a lot of time with Aaron," Rick observes. He doesn't think he means it as an accusation, but maybe he does. He needs Daryl and Carol on his side, especially when everyone else is off playing house. He needs to make sure they are ready to strike, even if it keeps Carol invisible and Daryl ostracized. If Rick begins to feel what others would call guilt at the thought, well, he justifies it with a survival count. He cocks his head to the side so he can catch Daryl's eyes.

Daryl's focus falters for a second but then it's back on his like a vice grip, steadily building pressure with every second. "Mmh," Daryl grunts with a flick of his shoulder. "He started taggin' along when I was out huntin," he offers, "keeps saying he's out lookin' for rabbits but I ain't ever seen him catch one."

Rick nods at that, not quite able to picture Aaron taking down a rabbit. "Is that right?"

Daryl nods before taking the cigarette out of his mouth, rolling it in-between his fingers, and watching as the embers fall onto the wooden floor. "Always talks 'bout how he still feels like an outsider here but he's givin' these people the chance to get to know em, guess it makes it easier," he snorts and shakes his head and Rick wishes that wasn't the closest Daryl comes to a laugh. "Told him I got nothing to prove."

Daryl's proved himself enough as far as Rick's concerned. If these people don't see his worth, it's their loss and he ain't saying that lightly. Rick's done more than fine with Daryl in his corner. "You're not the same," Rick reassures, "remember that. You have people. You have a family."

The silence that settles over them in answer enough. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance, one of their main staples when they were trudging through snow packed three feet high. Food's easier to come by here, Rick has a pantry of dry goods and fruit to his name that will last him the winter. It's an assurance Rick didn't think he would be blessed with again.

"He offered me a job the other night," Daryl says after a beat, biting at the skin on his thumb.

Rick can't help but raise his eyebrows at that. "Is that why you didn't take the gun before?"

"You said we should try to make this work," Daryl counters, taking the final pull of his cigarette. Smoke mixes between them before it disappears into the night. "For the others. S'all I'm tryin' to do."

"Yeah, well, I'm not talking about the others right now, Daryl. I'm talking about you."

Daryl slinks down, until he's sitting with his back resting against the wall. "Got nothing better to do, might as well make myself useful."

Back at the prison, Daryl and Michonne would stay out for days at a time trying to track down the Governor. They're not made for sitting idle, Rick gets that. Keeping his voice measured, Rick asks: "And how does Aaron plan on making you useful?"

"Wants me to recruit with him," Daryl offers. "Thinks I can tell between good and bad people." Rick has come to trust Daryl's judgment like an oath. How many times has he looked to Daryl before making a decision, watching for a slight nod or shake of the head? Something deep within Rick, something primal and dark, isn't overly keen on someone else moving in on that territory. Daryl is his man, belongs to his family and nobody is moving in on that unless they are directly invited to.

They're a team and Rick needs them to remain a team, untouched by people who haven't seen Daryl take a gun out of Rick's hand. Who didn't squint against the dirt and the dust in Woodbury when Rick realized they were down a man. He watches Daryl's throat as it swallows and is determined to keep him alive and well. "We have to be careful around these people," Rick warms. "We still don't know their angle."

"You don't got to tell me twice," he answers and flicks the remains of the Camel over the railing.

"Be careful out there," Rick says. What he really means is: Don't die for these people. He doesn't have to add: come back. He never has to.

::

Alexandria is roughly the size of a small strip mall. Walking the perimeter takes 30 minutes at best and there ain't much to watch for except for hesitant smiles and polite waves. Roughly three hundred beams support the fence, which is made out of steal salvaged from the remains of the military operation that must have been overrun the second this entire thing went down. The fences are high enough to deter an unplanned attack, but without gaps to keep watch, there won't be any chance of seeing one coming. A heard could take out the beams and with only one exit, it risks high casualties.

All that aside, Rick can work with this wall. Every problem, every weakness he finds can be fixed given enough time and manpower. If Deanna agrees to spare able citizens, Rick knows he can train them well enough to get a reliable patrol going day and night, working in shifts so they can still enjoy the leisure that has come with this town. At the very least, it will give them something to fight for, something to want to save. There are too many resources here, too much food and water to let go unguarded. Rick's already lost one home, he's not about to lose another. Not with winter coming and a baby to feed. Give people reason enough to fight and they'll be volunteering to take watch in the tower and that, well, that will give them a fighting chance is someone tries to take what is theirs.

And this is theirs now, if they want it.

Deanna has the right idea here, but she's holding onto the old world. Starting over isn't going to work when you're barely holding onto what you got. One coordinated attack is all it will take for everything to crumble. Luck may have kept them sheltered from the world, but when that luck runs out, when the world comes charging through those gates with high powered assault rifles and machetes, people are going to get killed and Rick can't have that.

It's that mentality that keeps most of the citizens on edge around them. A constant reminder that they're not as safe as Deanna promised they were. All it takes is one person, someone getting lost or stumbling upon them when they're out scouting to put his entire operation at risk. Most people ain't fans of sharing anymore and when they come to take something, they take it all. Except for the handful of families and lone survivors who have lived outside the walls for various stretches of time, most of these folk haven't learned the importance of tucking a knife into your boot or to keep a measured distance between themselves and anyone they don't know. They don't know what it takes to stay alive.

Rick feels their eyes on the back of his head as he patrols the streets, weaving through avenues and cul-de-sacs until he reaches the front of the gate and then begins again. His kind makes these people uneasy and they should. At the heart of it, Deanna and her citizens are kind, gentle even, Rick observes like it's a death sentence. And it is. Gentle gets you a bullet through the head. Gentle makes you a target. Rick doesn't know the ins and outs of the story, but he knows that Carol and Tyreese were down two children when they reunited with the rest of the group and he's willing to wager that gentle had its hand in that, too.

Being out there, it strips you of your defenses, skins you raw until you've got no choice but to bare yourself innards and all. Rick's seen the worst of his own and in turn, they've seen him wrecked, mangled like a beaten dog, unable to care for something too vulnerable to care for itself. They've weaved their arms together as they waded through the rapids, gripping with white knuckles when someone stumbled. Pushed against splintered doors when a storm raged above them determined to live, determined to keep those doors closed so that no one else would be lost.

You don't build that type of loyalty behind walls. It happens in the trenches, hearts beating and blood thick on your hands. Deanna says she can read people and maybe she can, but she's got no way of knowing what Carla will do when someone has a sawed off pointed directly at her chest. Rick knows his people will draw like the best of them, even if they're outnumbered if it means potentially saving one of their own. Split seconds are the difference between life and death out there and Rick hopes Deanna is ready to put her life on the line to test out her theory.

Rick's passing the second house on Hill Street when he hears someone calling his name. He comes to a stop just as Aaron jogs up to him with an arm outstretched like it's a regular ol' Sunday. Manicured lawns and flowers stretch the length of the street, walling them in on both sides, mailboxes pristine like the post is due any day now. 'Officer," he says by way of greeting. "Looks like you and Michonne are finding your grooves, that's good. Town's never been safer." The tone is easy, playful even and completely lost on Rick.

Rick's not so good at this, never was. Lori always pulled him into conversation he had no reason to be in, then threw her arms in the air before they went to bed, _why can't you let anyone in_? Now more than ever, Rick's more comfortable drawing a gun than making conversation, but he offers a tight smile all the same.

"Right," Aaron says with a nod. He rubs his hands together and rocks on his feet before shifting his weight to the left. "Still getting used to everything. I get it. Took me and Eric a few weeks, too. Hey, at least the uniform looks good on you."

There's no scrutiny with Arron, nothing that suggests he wants to know what happened out there. Rick sees the questions forming when he speaks to some of the inhabitants, watches the words get stuck in their throats when they remember Sasha's outburst. It's a story, a reminder of how good they've had it and Rick isn't offering his blood for their amusement. The details, everything that makes Rick and his people complete, that doesn't get to go up on display. Bob and Tyrese aren't some campfire stories and Beth doesn't deserve their pity. Their lives were real, they mattered, and now they flow through Rick's veins like blood, pumping into his heart and back out again.

Aaron could be the type of person Rick would have welcomed into his fold before the prison, but for now, he's not ready to do this again. Not ready to let down his defenses, to let someone in when he's still mourning his losses. If it were up to him, Aaron would have been left abandoned in the barn where he found them, provisions and weapons taken like the offerings they were. Instead, he's taking Daryl beyond the wall, where he already almost lost one man to a broken ankle. It's not something Rick is particularly pleased about.

"Taking Daryl back out there?" He interjects, sucking in his cheeks and scanning the street. This is something Rick can do, focusing on tasks, making sure his people are prepped and safe when they leave the gates.

"Deanna wants us to go out again tomorrow. Just a day trip to an old library. Saw some clothes there a few weeks ago, thought it might be worthwhile to try it again. Deanna should start letting Daryl off on his own soon, he's good out there, but you know that." His smile is genuine, encouraging. Rick can't say he ain't trying but until Rick gets a better gauge on him, he's going to watch him like a hawk when he's with one of his own. "We still haven't found anyone, but that's just how it goes. Took me a long time to find your group and here we are. We'll hit our stride soon."

"Yeah, I bet you will."

"He's a good man," Aaron says in earnest. "A man like him, he wouldn't be traveling with the wrong type of people, Rick. You should think about that."

_One of the good guys_. It's a hollow memory, nearly drowned out by the sound of a gunshot ringing throughout the hall. Aaron would be surprised what a good man is capable of given the right set of circumstances. He'd be surprised what a good man is able of overlooking if it means keeping up with the comfort he's grown accustomed to. Good men kill, good men end up face first on tarmac.

"Look," Aaron continues, "I'm just saying, give this place a chance. A real chance. We're good people, too, and we're making something great together. You can be part of that. You should be part of that."

"Thank you," Rick says and he's half inclined to mean it. Daryl is a good man and depending on the day, Rick may be one, too. Still, they both have ghosts trailing their every move, pulling at their knees with every step they take. Perspective is the only thing that keeps them from being pulled into the ground, almost forcing them to pat themselves off as they crawl through the bullshit.

Rick's just about to turn away when he stops himself, turning on his feet until he's looking directly at Aaron. "How many men have you lost out there?" _He's one of the good ones_. It echoes through Rick's mind like a symphony. Even good men are capable of terrible things and smiling the next morning.

"Lost?" Aaron asks slowly like he's unwilling to take the question at face value. Rick sees the exact moment is hits Aaron, face pinching as he replays whatever happened to him out there. "We lost one man, before Eric started coming out with me. I tried, I mean really tried, Rick, but he didn't want to fight anymore."

If Rick wanted to keep score, Aaron's record would be shit with one man lost and one man injured. Rick knows he can't tell Daryl what to do, but he can make sure Aaron knows it can't be like it was before, not when it's Daryl's life on the line for this place. "If Daryl's flare goes off," Rick says, gently nodding his head, "you better make sure to do more than try. You may not like the consequences if you don't."

For his part, Aaron seems unperturbed by the warning. _Good_, Rick thinks, let these people think they know him. It will be easier to tug the rug from under their feet when the time comes to it.

::

"We're staying here." It was Maggie who said it aloud, not ten minutes into dinner. Rick isn't their leader, hasn't been since he set his gun on a table and took on the title of farmer, but their eyes still travel to him when a decision has to be made. Tie breaker Daryl had called him as thorns scratched at their clothing just a few days before Aaron approached them. No, Rick doesn't govern them but when it comes down to the skinny of it, when the difference between staying on course or verging left might be the difference between life and death, he feels a familiar weight saddle itself back on his shoulders, digging its heals into his shoulder blades.

"We need this place," she admitted for everyone, "and I don't want to go back out there."

Rick's sitting with his elbows on the table, face propped against interwoven fingers. Around him glasses clink, forks scrape against plates, and the smell of chicken and garlic lingers throughout out the room. It's not too far off from their first dinner at Hershel's, when the farm was their only lifeline. But instead of stifled silence, they're talking about old recipes and soups their mother's used to make when they were children. Instead of strangers coming together out of necessity, they sit around the table like a family. And right now, his family is looking at him with bated breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.

There's promise here, just like there was promise in the prison's soil, but Rick's not ready to let go of his skepticism. Given time, maybe this place will come to change that, but the reality is that he's going to have to change this place. The more he stays here, the more he learns about his new neighbors, the more he believes that this way of living just isn't in the cards anymore. The only question is how to make the old residents know that.

The thing is, this entire thing, it ain't only about him anymore. Looking around the room, he sees his people. People that he's bled for, people he's willing to lay down his life for if it means giving them the chance of another day. And right now, his people want to stay. Want the chance of making a life here and that ain't Rick's decision anymore. What can be Rick's decision though, is making sure they stay here even if the Alexandrians want them out. Rick locks eyes with Carol as he's making his way across the room and she gives him a knowing smile.

"Is that what ya'll want?" Rick asks, dropping his hands onto the table. "Ya'll want to stay here?"

The nods are almost instantaneous.

"Well, then, it looks like we're staying."

::

Dirt billows as Rick kicks at the ground, boot digging into the earth. He squints his eyes against the sun, thankful that the worst of the heat is behind them. With luck, they'll make this arrangement work through winter. If not, well, they'll make it work regardless. Even if they don't take the town, there are enough abandoned houses in the area that seem safe enough. As long as they are fortified and stored enough food and water, they could make it here. He turns to take in the abandoned house that has become their meeting point. It's clear of walkers today, which buys them additional time together. Since they've accepted their positions, it's been increasingly difficult finding time to meet away from Alexandria. It's been especially difficult with Daryl, as recruiting keeps him away from the compound for days on end. Even when he is back, the citizens still watch his every move like he's some kind of rabid dog, too unwieldy and unpredictable to be kept in the house.

Rick watches as Daryl stalks around the perimeter, always making sure to keep part of his body turned towards the woods, listening for the slightest snap of a twig that would signal someone coming their way. As lookouts go, Rick reckons Daryl is one of the finest. Years ago, Rick would be right there with the Alexandrians, writing Daryl off as a lost cause, too dangerous to keep around the fire. Now, well, Rick's life isn't the only one owed to the hunter. A low thump draws his attention to Carol, slowly inspecting the debris pile just feet away from the house. Even with three sets of eyes, they still can't find any clues as to who might have taken the gun or when. At best, it's stored and locked with the other weapons in Alexandria, at worst, it's part of a hidden arsenal and that puts Rick on edge.

Unsurprisingly, Carol comes out empty handed. She moves to prop her shoulder against the paneling, weight distributing to her right. She's still holding her right arm tightly against her ribcage, wincing if she moves it too quickly. Part of him doesn't think the show she put on when relinquishing her weapon was a complete charade, but he keeps that observation to himself. Carol's the reason they escaped Terminus and if that means having to carry a bit of extra weight, they all owe her enough to do exactly that. He shakes the thought away as he looks back to the Daryl. Thinking about Carol's shoulder inevitably leads to thinking about Beth and he doesn't have that in him right now.

"Maybe it wasn't someone from Alexandria," Carol says when the silence starts stretching on too long. "Maybe it was another group passing through. Saw the house and stopped to see if they could find something. It's what we would do."

Rick's fingers trace the inside of his belt, clicking his tongue. "No," he says, "No, if they found this place, they would have found Alexandria. You really think someone would have just kept on walking after finding something like that?"

"Could have been scouting for another group," Daryl offers as he crouches next to the walker they killed days ago. The smell is something fierce, but it doesn't stop the hunter from pulling at the clothes until the upper body is lifted off the ground. Even with the rotting flesh sitting out in the sun, the mark on the forehead is still prominent, a bold 'W.' "Stumbled 'cross a few others when I was out with Aaron," Daryl says as he moves his head just slightly to view the mark from another angle. "Didn't think much of it 'till I remembered this asshole." Allowing the body to drop back to the ground, Daryl reconvenes next to Rick, rubbing his hands against his jeans. "Someone else is out there, just haven't found them yet, is all."

"Think it's a warning?" Carol asks, soft voice matching her floral undershirt. It's easy to see why Deanna misjudged her. It's another ace in the hole that may keep them alive if it comes down to it.

"You don't just carve up a walked an' let em go for nothing," Daryl answers. "Gotta be a sick sonnabitch."

Muscles in Rick's back start constricting as he continues looking at the 'w.' "It's not a warning." You don't have to be overly imaginative to figure that letting walkers loose is nothing short of a threat. As far as Rick's concerned, if Daryl is right and someone is intentionally letting these things go, the mark is nothing sort of a declaration of intent. Warnings are signs, tree logs sharpened and ready. Clear indications that you should turn back because once you cross the threshold, there's no telling what you're bound to encounter. Using walkers as walking billboards, that's letting out the hellhounds. Helping to clear an area whether by force of terror before you take it.

No, this ain't no warning, this, this is the first sign of war.

Carol crosses her arms against her chest, looking at Daryl to Rick respectively. "Makes sense doesn't it?" she asks. "Really think we're the first people they encountered who have had guns? Could have let us go and we would have never known anyone was there. Aaron made a choice when he approached us."

"More like a gamble," Rick says turning away from the walker.

"If Deanna knows about these people, it seems like it's a gamble she had no choice but to take," Carol continues. "Most of the citizens don't know how to defend themselves, let alone take a life. They're sitting ducks."

Rick pulls at the skin just above his adam's-apple as bits of himself stir back awake. Rick was a damn good sheriff, with gut intuition playing into his long life span, and right now, gut intuition says there's something here. Smart people – people who want to live – don't allow outsiders into their gates with guns drawn. Not unless they're desperate. _You're the type of man I want on my side._ The open arms, the parties, integrating his people into the very fabric of Alexandria _\- Rick and his people are part of this community now_ – Deanne was making her move, insuring her survival by offering herself and her people to another set of wolves. _Just in case_, Rick thinks, and he can't fault her for it.

"She wants us to fight," Rick says with a nod, "we can do that. But when we finish, when we win, Alexandria isn't going to be theirs anymore. Our blood, our town."

He feels Daryl's gaze on him and looks over his shoulder to meet it dead on. Nothing but support is written on the hunter's face and it's enough to straighten Rick's shoulders. His people want to stay in Alexandria and Deanna wants protection, Rick is more than willing to comply. _You're the type of man I want on my side, _Deanna had said and Rick's ready to show her why she was right.

::FIN::

Rick and Daryl have always held a special place in my heart but this is the first time I started thinking about shipping them (thanks to the insistent pestering of a friend). Getting them down on paper was challenging, but I'm offering this up regardless. Do what you will with it, but I hope someone out there enjoys it enough to hope to see it continued. The rating will most certainly go up as this continue, so please read future warnings if you're not interested in reading about men being with other men. This is the first time I'm posting a multichapter fic without having it written beforehand and I'm itching to hold back even as I write this. Be kind to me!


End file.
